Doeshelet the truth get in the way of anything? That was another rhetorical question.

Too many questions; no legitimate psychiatric analysis.

Except the one theory, which resonates for me: that, as head of state, he is woefully ill-prepared to lead and dangerously disinterested in learning how to do so. And lazy, to boot.

Personally, the bright spot in all of this is that the veneer of him as a populist president is cracking, even among his supporters.

[SIDEBAR: Different parties can have control and implement their policies, as long as they are based on reason, research and love of country above party.]

This has given me hope now. But not when I needed it last February.

When Dad died, I looked for hope. Dad was such an optimistic person. He came from nothing to rise in the tide of the American Dream. It was not an easy rise. Not for him and not for his brothers. They fought in the wars — the ones that meant something and those that didn’t. But he had an optimism that every day could bring something new and wonderful.

So, I looked for reasons to be optimistic after he died, to balance the grieving.

[SIDEBAR: I did not inherit the optimistic gene. Don’t ask me whether the glass is half full, ask me whether there is even a glass there and, then, whether you are filling it with water or poison.]

And I found nothing in the national conversation, nothing in the political rhetoric, nothing in the day-to-day anti-immigrant, anti-religious, anti-persons of color, anti-LGBTQI — just “anti” — incidents in our streets and in our communities. His seeming iron grip over a volatile voter constituency darkened my everyday.

I was lost.

But even despair inevitably gives way to hope because despair is so very exhausting.

And the current open conversation about this potential evil despot being unfit gives me hope.

Because tyrants must fall if we are to be the democracy of our forefathers’ dreams.

And, they are my dreams, too.

Rest in peace, Dad. Your youngest child was wounded but recovered and is battle-ready.

Here are some rantings. A little too much for one blog, but this has been long simmering…

The 2016 election seemed to reveal the inhumanity of our fellow citizens.

Narcissism, racism, selfishness, and just plain meanness, won by a landslide. And a mentally unstable, know-nothing, racist, xenophobic man with a history of sexual assault and fraudulent business deals became our commander-in-chief.

This was not America.

And then I learned, from people I admire and respect, that day-to-day life — as viewed on November 9, 2016 — would not be so different for far too many people when Agent Orange was sworn in.

It would still be dangerous to be African-American in this country — the traffic stops, the arrests for wearing a hoodie, etc. [I learned that even my classmates from an elite American college were not immune.] Except even more police officers would walk away from murder charges.

People of all colors (other than white) would still be harassed and hounded and taunted. Except it could be more blatant now.

Women would still face gender-bias and harassment in the work place and everywhere else, but it could be more blatant now. I am in my 50s, so no one grabs at me anymore; it just affects my business generation and income. [That anyone thinks it is ok to grab another person’s body part without permission is such a clear example of unexamined biases in our society.]

Immigrants or perceived immigrants could be told to go back to their countries even if they have always lived here (even if they born here – or brought here as children — and had been here as many generations as the hate-spewing white person).

Peoplewho blamed others for taking away the jobs they were unqualified to have could rage with abandon.

And the ends justify the means. And if it meant that some powerless person was harmed or killed to make otherwise ineffectual white men (mostly) feel empowered, well, all the better. And these ineffectual white men did not hide it.

Neo-Nazis still existed, except they no longer hid behind hoods.

We were, of course, united by the existential threat that the Mango Mussolini would get us blown up by nukes or cause our economy to melt down because of unbridled greed and abject stupidity.

This is not America (but it is).

While I was tortured and devastated, I thought that my life — even as a white, liberal, Jewish lesbian — that would not change, as long as I lived out Trumpism in New York City.

But the vitriol and the hatred unnerved me. And the hate crimes surged here.

And I felt powerless.

And then my perception of reality did change.

I would love to say that I resist and march for others. But that is not true.

I fight for my life, my beliefs and my family legacy. I own this fight. And every win is a triumph — if a racist cop is imprisoned, a Trump associate is indicted, a government subsidy to the wealthy is revealed, or a judge smacks down Administration for its Muslim travel bans. Maybe that makes it more real for my compatriots when they look at this middle-age, well-to-do white woman.

Because it is about me. And about you. And about you and me.

And standing up is itself a gift. The Sunday after Rosh HaShanah, there was the Muslim American Day parade. There were about seven of us who went to hold up the sign:

We were greeted with such love and joy. I was the one crying from gratitude. And then we were asked to march in the parade.

So seven New York Jews marched in a parade alongside Muslim Americans whose heritages spanned the globe.

Everything in my life brought me to that day — my immigrant grandparents, my striver parents who didn’t speak English until first grade, who became upper middle class professionals, through public school education and the GI bill.

I am learning about the America that was and that is. And I am learning about the necessary work to make good on the promise of America. Because I want America to be that of my grandparents’ fantasies. Because I want everyone I know and everyone in my subway car has an equal chance at prosperity, safety, security and health. (Happiness is never guaranteed.)

And then, daily indignities of having Trump as president, backed by the political sewage that is the GOP leadership, gave rise to a “I am too tired to be silent” rage. And then came the tidal wave that was the culmination of each act of love, patriotism and resistance:

“Me, too” meme that has felled so many (except for the Groper-in-Chief).

The teetering campaign of Roy Moore, the poster child of ‘America Gone Psycho.”

The clear inability (thank G-d) of the GOP to govern.

The people associated with Trump getting indicted.

People realizing that taco stands on every corner is an awesome concept.

The realization that the children of those who are running the stands are the future of American. Just like my grandfather with his apple stand.

Also? head scarves are cool.

And then hope came this off-year Election Day. Democracy could carry the day. If we stay vigilant and take nothing for granted. And if we believe that we are all created equal and with inalienable rights to life and prosperity. Maybe not happiness, but maybe safety in our homes and on our streets from robbers, thieves and agents of local, state and federal government.

And one more wish?

Let that same damn landslide bring them down. (oh, for all the Neo-Nazis and White Supremacists, thanks for taking off your hoods. Now we know where to find you.)

If you are an unskilled white laborer, you have been putting blinders on for years. There have been re-training programs required by companies that laid you off. You didn’t take those courses.

Now comes Akmal from Syria. He is a medical doctor in intensive care. He will treat you. He didn’t take your job away. He helps your medical problems. Medicaid or Medicare pays for it all. (G-d bless America.)

You go home in one piece. Medicaid is a government program. SNAP grants are government programs and so is welfare.

It doesn’t change that you allowed denial to take you livelihood away. I don’t know how you square that with the our basic precept: In America, we pull ourselves up by our bootstraps. We don’t go on food stamps or relief.

SO IT IS OK IF YOU ARE WHITE AND TAKE GOVERNMENT SUBSIDIES, BUT NOT OK IF OTHERS DO? [Did you know that the TRUE BLUE DEMOCRAT NorthEast pays those benefits for the rest of the country?)

Immigrants would never do such a thing. I know, from experience. As bad as life got in the Depression, the one thing that made my grandparent’s generation hold their heads up high was that they never applied for help from the government.

And yet, the demonization continues for hard working people who came here — as my grandparents did — for a better life for their children and their descendants. (Surely, the crime of illegal immigration should have a statute of limitation shorter than, let’s say, a robbery?)

The daily Executive Orders forget that:

immigrants built this nation, and

that rugged individualism was touted in the Reagan years (and which we know only survived only in settler communities that hunkered down in hard times),

Reagan’s was the first whistle call about welfare mothers driving in Cadillacs [which is a lie]; and

that affordable quality healthcare is a right. (We know It is only a privilege until you need it and then it is a right.)

The daily assault on women’s rights and their bodies.

A woman’s right to make decisions in consultation with their doctor and but Mike Pence has to be presence and make arrangements to bury the aborted fetus.(P.S.: Pence hates women so much, a person could wonder . .. . )

Trump locker room talk and Harvey Weinstein revelations. In 2017 for Goodness sakes. They should share a cell together.

The daily demonization of citizens who are not white men.

The absurd response to the Black Live Matter movement as if it were some sinister plot to mis-characterize the grotesque inequalities that lie like a fault line between whites and people of color. Black lives matter. People of color’s lives matter. Muslim lives matter. Disabled lives matter. I can go on. We all matter. And we all need seats at the table of a government of the people, by the people and for the people.

The absurd Muslim ban.

The absurd wall with Mexico.

The daily assault on the values of America of my youth — work hard, give charity, extend a hand to someone who needs extra help, take your share and leave a little on the table, pay taxes to the nation that gave your parents a great public school education so it will fund future amazing public schools, so that education and opportunity are at every child’s finger-tips. Not what DeVos is doing.

The daily assault of half-formed ideas, incoherent policy, and raising up people like Bannon who wish to do harm to our form of self-government.

The daily threat of annihilation by crazy boys with bad toys.

So, besides having too much wine and running until my body is in ruins and working harder than a 50+ person should, what do I do?

Small acts of protest. Be kind and open to whomever passes your way. Monthly contributions to Planned Parenthood, ACLU, Southern Poverty Law Center. March whenever there is something on the weekend, even schlep there. Show up to the Muslim American Day Parade with a sign that says Jewish New Yorkers welcome our Muslim neighbors. (and when they ask us to mark, we roll with it!!) Sign petitions. Be out, loud and proud of your stance of on all of these issues. Canvass.

Mom’s and Dad’s house is empty of the objects that made it our home. In fact, worse — the built-ins have been torn down with the most ginormous crowbar and sit as wreckage in the living room.

The apartment looks like sullied shambles of an ordinary place.

But it isn’t ordinary. It is where our young lives happened and generations argued and celebrated, laughed and cried, welcomed new life and mourned those who died.

And it is ok that realtors fix a value to a life-battered, empty, and unrenovated space. The price is what the market will bear. Memories don’t add value. How could they? They are only priceless and unique to us who lived them. And those memories — the love and hurts and pain and epiphanies (few) — don’t live there. They live in the three of us — my siblings and me.

So, on Saturday, as we schlepped the last boxes of slides and books that HOSOB (husband of sister of blogger) so lovingly packed up, POB (partner of blogger) asked me if I wanted to take down the mezzuzah on the doorpost of house.

I couldn’t. At the time, I didn’t understand my visceral “nooooooo!”

Later, I realized that removing the mezzuzah was the final, symbolic gesture that would transform my parents’ home to a vacant apartment up for sale.

But, at the time, I knew it was too much for me to bear. And too much to do alone. It was a moment that needed all of us kids to do.

So, I will wait for SOB (sister of blogger). Next weekend, she and I, with our brother on the phone, will take down the mezzuzah. We, three. Together.

SOB (sister of blogger) and I had to have a little time today. She went to Dad’s and your apartment aloneand looked through pictures. What was she thinking?

The house is still filled with happy memories, even with your and Dad’s deaths there. For each of you, the months before your deaths were the most honest, hilarious, screwball-comedic and emotionally devastating episodes of our lives.

If you read my blog, you know that we made sure Dad had everything, including his cocktail hour — his sacred time with all of us. Even if we had to use an eye-dropper to share wine with him. And I know you would have laughed at all of this, because you loved that your kids were crazy when it came to you and Dad. And you loved that, when we took over, it was gently and lovingly. You raised us right — with love and humor.

You died before your peers. They were there to mourn you and comfort us. Luckily, there were many to mourn Dad. He staked out a place in people’s hearts after you were gone. Hard to believe but true.

He never forgot you. We tried to get him interested in others. But he was married to you and that was the beginning and end of the story. So, we took special care of him because he, like us, live every day with you in our hearts.

SOB and I are having a hard time on the weekends, because they centered on visits with Dad. I think I drink a little too much wine on Friday nights so I can’t get up on Saturdays for the usual routine.

But, the hole needs to stay for a while because, to fill it, would erase Dad. And we cannot figure out how to fill our weekend and keep Dad’s spirit with us. Yet. Maybe soon. But it is a process.

I don’t think we ever thought that both of you would be gone and we would relinquish our home with all of the memories that soaked right into the walls, shoring up the very building’s foundations.

The other painful part is memory. We can’t figure some of the faces in the pictures. That is too scary for us, because maybe in two generations, no one will pick out you or Dad in the pictures. And that is more painful that you know.

Life is a journey. And death is a legacy and that legacy is a gift to the generations that follow. If only we make sure they remember.

Because a moron is in the White House and 63 million people thought that was a good idea.

We are a drifting hulk and striving for steady leadership. Or even a little respite — comic relief — in our search for direction. (Thank you, Justin Trudeau, for your choice of socks on May 4th. May the Fourth always be with you.)

The abject corruption and self-dealing in this White House is so abhorrent and anathema to our 250-ish year-old experience (ok, the Teapot Dome scandal was amateur hour compared to this Administration), that we have no response.

We keep thinking we are crazy because it can’t be happening, and surely the Congress and Department of Justice would investigate. Oh, wait, this is the Congress that passed AHCA and a DOJ that imprisoned someone for laughing at Jeff Sessions.

First Brexit and then AgentOrange made the sane among us worry about the portents of a World War II redux. One in which fascism/nazism would win precisely because 45is enamored of strongmen and dictators.

If France “fell” to Le Pen and Merkel didn’t do well in local elections, then the conventional wisdom is that the world would devolve into conflict that would end the world. Because now, as distinct from 1945, many groups have nuclear weaponry.

I believe that conventional wisdom. And I am grateful for the election of Macron — which meant, for me, that people who love liberty, even for those they may personally despise, won the day — and the shoring up of support for Angela Merkel.

But we must remain vigilant.

Because no one has to like another person, for any reason or no reason, but all of us must believe in a person’s rights to believe and behave as they do, within the confines of the law. That means if you beat up someone, you go to jail. That means if you don’t want “others” in your town, suck it up or move. It means that you are responsible for your choices and your destiny and there are no scapegoats for your sorry life.

The beauty and reality of a free society.

These tenets are under siege. And I will fight for them.

THE REST IS ADDRESSED TO WHITE AMERICA WHO VOTED FOR TRUMP:

I am white, educated, and reasonably well-heeled. My immigrant grandparents struggled and so did my parents. And now my siblings and I are successful. We stand on the shoulders of two generations. And our children will get everything we can give them.

Because we know where we came from. And the gift that is this nation.

Too many people after too many generations here forget the gift of this nation. And then chose to despoil it with a con man and grifter.

Let me be clear about something: if you are white and voted for Trump and you take assistance — food stamps, medicaid, or go to the emergency room for medical care — you are a scourge on the society. You depend on me for your care. And that aid ended with the election of Agent Orange. And I am good with it. Because immigrants deserve the promise of this country more than those born into it who feel more entitled than grateful.

Maybe Reagan poisoned you with the “welfare mothers driving Cadillacs” which was a whistle call and untrue. But if you had any self-esteem or any drive, you would have seen through that. You are lazy and you think white privilege will grease the wheels.

Would I give you a managerial job if you failed 6th grade? Are you kidding me?

You are so interested in entitlement reform? Most of those who receive benefits are white (and Republican). I am good with it. I don’t want to pay for you. You were born with more rights and privilege than anyone else in the world. If you and your family blew it, it is on you. And because AHCA was passed, you need me to pay for your ER visits. Instead of making me pay those taxes to provide those services, I will get a tax break. Thank Paul Ryan and Agent Orange.

I am tired of you. Get a job. Harvest the fields. Like my grandparents who worked in sweat shops and my parent who did odd jobs from when they were 5 years-old. And studied when they could and learned about the world.

I will contribute my tax savings to people like my parents and grandparents who struggle to make it here so their children will have good lives.

No, I have no sympathy, except for the coal miners who will lose their medical coverage now. But if they voted for Trump and the Darwinian view of life, then, well . . . .

Don’t cry to me when you are turned away from the ER.

I voted for Hillary.

Which meant more taxes for me.

To take care you and everyone else.

Because I believe in the promise of America.

But you don’t believe in that promise.

Because you elected Agent Orange and a Congress that would repeal ACA.

I believe in the sanctity of human life – from inception to the end. My heart bleeds for every unnecessary death and for every injury or malady that can’t be repaired or remedied. I can’t even read about a child dying without tearing up.

Oh, and you should know that I am a lesbian raising a child with my partner.

You may think that is a sin and beyond the pale. And you would be wrong. We live a life with the same principles as in my parents’ home: work hard, be compassionate, be humble (here is where I fell down), and pay it forward. I would compare my charitable giving and my civic involvement to make everyone’s life better against 45‘s in real dollars and as a percentage of our incomes. And have it posted.

But, you and I, we are very different: my family and I take responsibility and work for a better world. My family and I don’t wallow in what is. My family and I are forward-looking and seek to heal the world. The latter a commandment in my religious tradition. I am not a person of faith, but I believe in the wisdom and directives of our ancients.

And as far as sins go, what you all allowed –i.e., electing 45 — puts you in a Hell that even Jesus didn’t anticipate. Jesus is on my side. And you know it.

So, if you obeyed even just these three commandments, how did we get here?

Last Passover, Dad was not well enough to attend. That freaked me out.

And, in one of those moments that, even then, you realize are precious, prescient, and Heaven-sent, BOB (brother of Blogger) decided to come North and bring his sons to Seder.

It had been more than 35 years since BOB, SOB (sister of Blogger) and I had shared Seder. And the last time, we had both parents, scores of cousins, aunts, uncles, grandparents, great aunts and uncles.

With Dad’s absence feeling like a foreshadow of recent events, I was so grateful to share Seder with SOB and BOB.

Like the old days. Only not at all.

We were older. The traditions meant more. The togetherness was special.

The years in between had smoothed our rough edges.

Ok, just mine.

Ok, Ok, Ok, only SOME of mine.

We had come full circle — us, kids — and found togetherness in our religious traditions.

This year, we won’t all be together. But I will carry my visual memory of last year — looking around the Seder table at my siblings, all of us gray-haired (if left untreated), carrying on the traditions handed down through the generations.

And, even though, we won’t all be together for this Passover, that memory sustains me. Because we have reconnected, in life and in tradition.

Hey, bro, next year, OK? We will miss you and your family something awful.

I am writing but I don’t know what will spill out or whether it will make any sense. I am not going to edit it afterwards. I am just going to write.

Friends from high school (and Facebook) lost their dad a day ago. It seems we are at that age.

And, a young girl whom we know from Benny’s school died from an anaphalactic reaction to medication when traveling in Asia on a school trip.

So, I feel so lucky that you lived a long and happy life. Even when I resented the pressure, and frankly the fear, of how to make it all work financially.

I think you died exactly when you knew it was going to be more than I could handle emotionally or figure out financially. You never wanted to be a burden.

I am going to the apartment this weekend. I am scared. Right after you died, I cleaned out some rooms. I think I was channeling energy into something that seemed constructive. SOB (sister of blogger) and BOB (brother of blogger) have taken some stuff that they wanted. I haven’t been back in more than two weeks. Because the place will not look the same.

We all talked about what would happen to Mom’s portrait. But I didn’t think about what would happen to our portraits. The ones that hung over your bed for literally 50 years.

BOB took his. SOB took hers.

Mine is left. I will take it this weekend.

And, with that, the deconstruction of our home. A small place. Way too small for all of us. I know we had the country house but we were crammed into the apartment growing up. I know Mom and you wanted to give us the best of everything, and some things had to give. I get that now. I used to be embarrassed, but now I get it.

And now I want to emulate you both as models of parental love and sacrifice.

And this weekend, I will take my portrait down from its place since 1967 and I will take more boxes of pictures.

And I will try to absorb all the memories dancing in the ether.

And I will relish the years in this house and regret the toll of my adolescent years and my embarrassment in front of my rich friends.

I will learn again that I am so lucky. That I didn’t bury a sibling or child. That I can take care of my family. That I have wonderful memories of the old days and the knowledge that Mom and you enjoyed your lives.

But I will still be a child in the deafening quiet of an emptying house, taking down my portrait. One of the three that hung above your bed for 50 years.

50 years.

50 years.

And a generation of the family, and my childhood, comes to an end.

I love you forever, Dad,

Blogger

P.S.: I imagine that being with Mom again is the same as it was. She is deep in conversation with a stranger and you are worried that you are going to be late to meet people to go to a museum. I bet the show is “Earth on Heaven: The Horror, the Horror.” If Mom doesn’t know about Trump, don’t tell her.